Fragments of Devotion
by Rainbow Smite
Summary: "He gently removes the folded robes, black like the deepest ocean waters, black like the end of the world. The material is rough like burlap, rough like the shattered bricks of a collapsed building. He takes out the mask now, smooth like an opal but so much uglier." Severus shows his son pieces of a life he is too young to remember. For my dear Chrissy. Exactly what you think it is
1. Snapshots of the Missing

Fanfiction formatting is a dick. So here's some extra space.

**Snapshots of the Missing**

He knows the entire place has eyes. Not just from Albus, but the building itself. So he keeps it hidden in the very earth, where the stones cannot sense its presence. He doesn't hide it with magic, because magic can be sensed out, found. It would make it obvious that he is hiding something. So its resting place is under the loose stones that can be pulled up to reveal the hole he dug to keep it in. Sometimes, when he's sure no one is looking, he takes out the box. All the remnants of his past life (the one he wants to think about) are in it. All of his shame and joy. He gently removes the folded robes, black like the deepest ocean waters, black like the end of the world. The material is rough like burlap, rough like the shattered bricks of a collapsed building, rough like the fragments of bone from all the death they caused. Sometimes he thinks it should drip too, drip with the blood of every life they so carelessly snuffed out. He takes out the mask now, smooth like an opal but so much uglier. It's bleach bone white. Someone has taken the time to strip the flesh and wash what's under, to lovingly display their work. "This is your heritage, Tommy," he says to his son. Tommy squirms on his lap like any two year old would, fist in his mouth and black eyes wide in the dim light. He's not sure why he's showing him these things. Maybe to prove to him(self) that his father(husband) was a great man or a horrible man. Sometimes he wonders which. Tommy's tiny fist wraps around the black of the robe, new and fragile fingers clutching at the fabric, trying to decide what it is and if it's worth his time. He does the same with the mask, this item he puts in his mouth, trying to chew on the edges. Gently he unwraps the baby's fist, pulls the mask from his delicate mouth. "No Tommy." But he's not surprised. He always suspected that Tommy would be fond of these things. He sees so much of Tom in their son, even at so young an age. He sets his garb to the side, and pulls out the only other treasure the trunk has to offer.

It's a photo album with only five pictures in it. He's not sure if Tommy should see these now when he's too young to understand, or see them when he's older and be able to grasp the gravity of them. So he'll show him now, when he doesn't have to worry about Tom's influence, doesn't have to worry about an unhealthy love of torture or bitter anger at the loss of his father. He opens the album then and takes out a photo. This first one is of their wedding, but it looks more like a funeral. He hadn't been interested in a wedding, but Tom had insisted. Tradition was important, solemn and somber were the sort of things Tom liked. In the middle of the frame they stood next to each other, not kissing, not smiling, not even touching. Tom wore black because Tom always wore black. He himself wore a deep, mossy green. All around them in a circle were Tom's followers, faces hidden in their masks. He didn't think a picture existed when they didn't have their cloaks and masks. They were too proud of their atrocities, yet too afraid to show their real faces. But he hadn't known that at the time.

The next photo was of himself, heavily pregnant, stretched out on a couch in his dressing gown, reading a book and smoking a cigarette. He used to go through a pack and a half a day. The stress of being a pregnant hermaphrodite and a murderer was… taxing. He could still taste the must on his tongue sometimes, still itched to hold something to his lips. Tom had made him quit, for Tommy's sake. He couldn't begrudge him that. He hadn't taken up the habit again after Tom was gone, though working at a boarding school probably had something to do with it as well.

This photo was of him holding Tommy right after he was born. It had been a surprisingly easy birth, all things considered. Which was lucky because it wasn't like they could go to a hospital, being wanted criminals and all. Tom had stood with him the entire time, silent but encouraging simply by being there. It hadn't been proper for fathers to watch the birth at that time, but no one would dare question Tom about his methods. For all of his flaws, he was a loving man, in his own way.

The photo after was of all of them. He was holding a squirming, six month old Tommy with a smiling face. Tom had his arm around his waist, and in the tiny moving picture he would lean over to smile and have a closer look at their son. He himself had taken to parenthood a lot easier than he had thought. He had patients where it counted, and would gently guide his infant son. If anything, he was the more stern of the two parents. Tom was much more indulgent in Tommy's whims. When he was a year old he would set the boy on his lap and read him texts of dark arts, grimoires, and fairy tales. "Indoctrinate them early. I must teach my boy proper values, my dear." He had said with his sweetest voice. Tom knew he thought Tommy was much too young for some of this. Surely it was good to get a head start on education, no son of his would be a simpleton, but Tom always seemed to take things just a step too far. "This is the spell that turns someone inside out." He said, pointing to an illustration of bones and organs flying out of a man's mouth while his skin and hair went sucking in. Tommy regarded it with graphite eyes, his mother's own, with a strange intensity. Tom smiled when little Tommy grabbed for the book with his chubby baby fingers.

The last picture he had of them was one he felt he ought to burn, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. He had so few mementos from their brief time together so he clung to every one, even the ones that showed the darker side of his life. They were in the hall Tom used to gather his followers, sitting in roughly hewn wooden thrones. Tom's was slightly taller; he wanted them all to know he was the leader of their organization. He was their king, their god. But his spouse was still nothing to scoff at, still demanded their begrudging allegiance. Severus had enjoyed watching them bow before him. For the first time he had power, he had respect, he had a true family. In the little picture they sat in their respective thrones, faces bare and proud before the ring of their masked, faith(less)full followers. Tommy was on his father's lap in this one, just one year old. Tom had been proudly showing his son, his heir, to his apostles. Tommy was a lovely baby. He would wear his father's handsome face someday, but with his mother's eyes.

...

This is my favorite part. It's disjointed and the tenses are weird sometimes because that's how I like to depict thought and shades of mental illness. I read too much Scorch Atlas or something. There's still more to come.


	2. Purgatory

This is for Chrissy, who begged and begged me to write this and bribed me with fudge and extra spicy chicken.

**Beginnings, Middles, Ends**

Once upon a time was how fairy tales began. They were a means of amusing and teaching young children things like don't wonder into the forest alone. Don't alienate your friends. Don't fall in love with strange men. These were all lessons his parents should have taught him, things he only gleaned in hindsight. Now here he was at only twenty two, widowed with a child and facing the looming threat of war. In a way he supposed he did have a story book life. It was a rather gloomy tale, rife with desolation, bad choices, and depression; it showed no sign of improving any time soon.

Somehow at the end, or intermission, of all the chaos, betrayal, deceit, and espionage, Severus found himself as a Potions Professor and head of house. He had spent some of the less miserable years of his life in this dungeon, so if one were to try and grasp at straws, you could say that it was rather fitting that only after three years away he was back again, bringing with him a son and little else. "Mu!" Tommy said, reaching out his little arms for him. Severus bent down to lift the toddler, brushing back a stray lock of black hair from his eyes. He wasn't sure if he should try to get Tommy to switch the rudimentary Mum to Dad.

In the wizarding world certain genetic abnormalities weren't as uncommon as they were in the muggle world. So, when he was born with a penis that was for urinating and not much else, as well as a completely female reproductive system (the opening for which was located where the testicles of a normal man's would be), it gave his bastard father another reason to hate him and his freak mother. "Couldn't even give me a proper son," he'd mutter drunkenly at him. He still had a masculine name, however. It wouldn't do to have a child that looked male wondering around with a name like Mary. It might have passed in the wizarding world but in the normal world you couldn't go around proclaiming how much of a disgusting freak you were. So he was raised like a boy, quietly ashamed of what was dubbed a deformity. He still felt a bit awkward about it now, which was why he was considering changing his son's "mu" to "da". Now that Tom was gone, at least for the moment, there was no need for it to get around that he was more female than male. However it would be much harder to explain where the other parent was.

As the mother Tommy could be explained as the progeny of an anonymous, ill advised one night stand. The problem with that Severus would be branded as a harlot. He could say it was non-consensual, but he didn't want Tommy to carry that stigma. If word got around of his son he supposed he could say the father died in the war and that he didn't want to talk about it. For the moment anyway, that was actually true. He just wasn't sure what to tell Tommy. He felt he had a right to know who his father was, but explaining that he had been an up and coming dictator with murderous intentions for the vast majority of the world's population was something that could be rather hard to swallow for a child. Severus didn't want Tommy to hate his father. Tom loved their son and was a wonderful parent, but his ideals and actions would have gotten them killed sooner rather than later. Up until Tommy had been born, he had been perfectly fine ignoring the repercussions of Tom's actions. Severus' love tended to be blind, deaf, and dumb, considering the way he had followed Lilly around for years before finally coming to the realization that she only thought of him as a friend and a not very worthwhile one at that. Perhaps it had been his youth, or naive and twisted, ignorant idealism, but he was certain he would die with Tom when it all came crashing down and he had been perfectly fine with that. Then he had a baby with him. It was supposed to be difficult for someone with his… condition to conceive. Normally it required the aid of strong and complicated potions. But Severus always had to go above and beyond the call of duty, even if it was a mistake.

Tom had been thrilled. Severus, less so. Neither one of them had any idea how to be parents, so how the hell were they supposed to raise a child of their own without severely fucking the poor thing up? Not to mention that neither one of them had a lot of free time. Tom was busy trying to get an empire off the ground and Severus was constantly making potions and doing research. But, as time went on parental instinct took over and he grew to love his unborn child. Devotion to Tom took a back seat to making sure his son lived. So, for the first time in his life, he did the right thing. Severus sold out the only person who had ever well and truly loved him in exchanged for clemency to raise the madman's son.

()()()()()()()

This is a preliminary run before I give it to Chrissy. I have no idea what I'm doing because this isn't my fandom but I really like that spicy chicken so I was like wtf why not. Chrissy wanted this ship and for it to have mpreg & family feels because she's into that kind of thing. So I wrote this because I have no shame. But I have my pride and refuse to make anything fluffy. Tell me if anything is all fucked up because Idk wtf I am doing, as previously stated. I have reams of this stuff and it's all... mentally ill...? So tell me if you like it and give me advise. Or tell me it sucks so I can try again. Thank you and sorry. :)


	3. Inheritance

Still working away. These got posted at AO3 first because I'm lazy. I still can't figure out how to do that line break thing.

**Inheritance **

He hated his mother. He hates her for her complacency and her resignation to allow this to be the rest of her life. He hates her, but not enough to see her suffer. A quick spell while she slept and she never again woke to see the light of day, to smell the alcohol on her husband's breath and the bruises on her only child's face. It was a mercy killing really.

Then it was time to deal with his father. He'd spent years of his life going over this in his head. What he would say, what he would do, how he would do it. Sometimes he fancied he would strangle him, pressing his thumbs into his windpipe as he watched his eyes go bloodshot and face go blue. The entire time having to watch his own son kill him. Other times he thought stabbing would be best. How many times could he push the knife in? How many organs could he hit? How much blood could he splatter on the walls, how high would it go? Sometimes he thinks it would be appropriate if he beat him to death. His own arms weren't nearly strong enough on their own. His father had always been so much bigger, so much stronger. He'd also made damn sure Severus knew it too. He'd have to find a pipe. It was easy to find the scraps and skeletons of houses here in Spinner's End where it was nothing but crumbling desolation. He'd drag it back with him and swing until his father's skull was mush and his brains poured out his ears. Other times he imagines drowning him in the toilette. The disgusting man deserved a disgusting place to die. He'd pull his head out just before he stopped breathing for good just to listen to him beg for forgiveness, only to push him back under.

When it happens it isn't nearly as magnificent as he thought it would be. Right after killing his mother in her bed he goes downstairs and sees his father in the kitchen, sees the knife sitting on the counter. His mother kept them sharp with her magic. Yes, that was perfect. He knew how he was going to kill him then. Stabbing it would be. While the man's back is turned, he rams the large kitchen knife into him. It slid in easily. He must have gotten somewhere between the ribs, punctured a lung. After that he can't stop. Once the body falls to the floor, he jumps on top of it and continues the assault. His mind is full of adrenalin and years of impotent rage as he plunges the knife in again and again. Sometimes it slides in cleanly, other times it hits solid bone and rebounds, jarring his wrist painfully. But he can't stop. He's sobbing uncontrollably, screaming I hate you I hate you I hate you over and over again. When he can finally bring himself to stop, there's a pool of blood crawling out around them, and his father's dead body is his life raft. His everything is streaked with blood and his tears leave a sticky, semi-clean path down his face. His nose is running profusely and his arms are tired and his hand aches from holding the knife so tight. He realized then that this isn't the glorious retribution he had dreamed of for so long. This isn't poetic or a display of power and superiority. He had been nothing more than a scared child lashing out at a long time abuser. There isn't much to do about it now though. His parent's are dead and he'll never have to worry about them again. Really, his only regret is that he didn't savor his father's demise or draw it out. He would have liked to have watching his face when he died.

It didn't matter though. He could heal him postmortem, put the bastard next to his mother in bed, make it look like a gas leak. And that's exactly what he does. The muggle authorities have no inkling of magic and his mother has no relatives that would bother to check on her. He has connections now, other places he can go. Months later, he is surprised to find out that the house is left to him.

...

Now he has to pay taxes on it though. The hell is he gonna do that? Yaaay killing your parents. I always figured that was how he got the place. It's not like they retired to Boca Raton and just left him the house. If I had parents that shitty I'd kill them too. And I mean come on, he joined the Death Eaters, he had to have proved that he was into killing people for a half blood to get in. Plus that's something that he and Tom can bond over. "Remember how we both killed our parents, honey? Oh we have so much in common! Let's go light innocent people on fire!" That's why Lily doesn't love you, you little sociopath.


	4. Harvest of Mutilation

Bonus level because people were nice to me. Best paired with Oomph!'s Burn Your Eyes. It works on so many levels.

**Harvest of Mutilation**

He remembers Tom's words, sweet honey laced with a most deadly poison. "Deserve is a human concept, my dear. Just like mercy. We will strike with cold efficiency and take what we want because we know what's best. They're sheep with an incompetent shepherd, and like a sickly herd, they must be culled."

He remembers the bodies. Sometimes they were still slightly warm but very stiff, almost impossible to move. Sometimes they were cold and pliant, waggling heads and bloated necks cracking against the frames of doors, leaving gobs of coagulated blood and sticky hair dried to the wood. Sometimes he had to ask for specific features, for their death to be on certain dates to increase the potency for his ingredient harvesting. Many a dark brew required lymph nodes, the joints from the wrist, the veins from the leg. He enjoys his work, knife sliding through flesh easily, hands pulling out organs and veins, bones and muscle. He was suited for this, it was his calling. It didn't matter that the thing on the slab once had a life, had a name, maybe even a family and happiness. He was going to change the world. He was going to clean it so that no one would have to suffer like they had, like him and Tom. Abused by their families, tormented in school, abandoned to an uncaring world. Tom cared, and Tom was going to cleanse this world by fire and by blood. The way it deserved. They tell him these people are unworthy, that they have committed atrocities against their cause, against their people. Who is he to question, to ask for proof? Deep down, he knows that they would have to answer should he inquire, he does out rank them. He supposes he could have asked, if he really cared. But everyone was petty, cruel, and vindictive, so they deserved it. One way or another they deserved it. Unless what Tom said about deserving something was true, in which case it didn't really matter anyway, did it? His cigarette was burning low. He snubbed it out on the open eye of the body. He didn't need these eyes, wrong color. He watched as it burned its way through the sclera, eating through the cold and slimy mucous, finally burning itself out on the lens, leaving a scorch mark. Maybe Tom would let him try this on a living one at some point. Maybe it could be James.

...

"Sometimes, I think you're made of spiders, my love." Tom says. "Everything about you reminds me of them. It's as if someone pulled the legs from a harvestman and affixed them to your eyes. They've taken the legs of a huntsman and glued them to your hands. Your hair is like spiders' webs. Does it catch the morning dew in summer? Your eyes are black like theirs. Black and waiting and hungry. Always watching." Tom tucks his cobweb hair behind his ear and together they sleep, safe, warm, and in love. He dreams that inside his body, spiders are spinning webs in his veins, that they're crawling behind his eyes. And they are dreams of utmost sweetness.

()()()()()()()

Some of you may be wondering what the hell is going on. There's nothing linear about this story. It's going to jump around a lot. There's a beginning, a middle, and an end that are where they should be on the time line but aside from that nope. Nothing linear. And there will be a few more parts that are just little fragments like this. Hence the name of the story. Fragments of the time he spent with his family. I've been watching way too much David Lynch stuff I guess. I'm almost done with a 3,000 word chapter so I figured it was okay to post the little ones. I'm hoping the whole thing will even out to about a thousand words per chapter even with these little ones.


	5. Choir Boys

Shout out to Silver Point Despair who's input is invaluable and helped this make as much sense as it possibly can without killing my fun.

Quirrell's point of view with **Voldemort's thoughts** in **bold.**

**Choir Boys  
**

There are so many lovely children, so sweet, so innocent. The ones who have never seen magic at all are **filthy mud bloods, nothing but vultures circling a swiftly dying body. Drown eviscerate burn poison. Nothing is too good for them** the sweetest of all. They've been told tales of magic by unbelieving adults. I can only imagine what it must be like for them to live here, in a place so magical **it should be sacred, and yet here they are, befouling the place. Worms below the flesh, eating out the heart.**

My thoughts haven't been my own these days, but it isn't as if I don't know why. I've let The Dark Lord into me. It's a bit hard to process two sets of thoughts at the same time, to send sensory information to two different minds simultaneously. He can see through my eyes **see the way you look at them, pervert**, hear through my ears** lies! Lies and heresy! Take your fork, gouge out his throat!** All of my senses are linked to him now. I'm but a tool, a vessel** for a reward you can have as many of the rats as you like they hardly count as real children **in exchange for countless treasures. Such beautiful and precious things. So tempting, so many, so close** Look but never touch. You've been given a task, pervert. **His insults keep me grounded. After all, it is so _hard_ to be around them, have their supple young bodies brush against mine in the corridors and not be able to do anything about it.

We're in the Great Hall for dinner and it's not only the food that is a feast. I have my favorite dishes, like anyone. Little Samantha Erikson from Hufflepuff, with her bouncing brown curls and shining hazel eyes. I could stare into them for hours, trying to count and name the colors. The youngest Weasley boy is a favorite as well, with his glossy red hair and inviting smile. I wonder if the sweet freckles on his face span the entire length of his body. **A prolific nest of blood traitors. You may have them all.** Though Percy is getting a bit old for my taste. **Take him anyway. His screams would be a beauteous concert.** But I don't wish to hurt them. That's what no one understands! I _love_ them. I want them to feel safe and happy. I want them to _enjoy_ my love. There's a gasping laughter in the back of my head that sounds more like choking. It's there every time I have a thought like that. **Oh sick abhorrent little man! No one could ever love you!** His taunts would have gone on, I am sure, if the Headmaster had not asked the Potions Master a question. I didn't hear the query, only the name Severus. Inside my head it's like a dicta-quill is broken, writing the name over and over and over, incessantly scratching it into my mind until it's all that I can hear.

**Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus he was my Lolita, so sinfully young it should have disgusted me. Though I could not bring myself to feel it. But it was not his youth that I desired. We share a venom, our connection is based on our hurts, the experience of our fathers' blood righteously spilled. Oh, bitter child, they'd already groomed* you for me. Washed you filthy in blood and distilled you with their fists, their slights. Handed you to me like a sacrifice. Shall I split you open and read the auspices from your intestines? But what a waste that would be. You have talent within your bloodstained hands. Oh ugly Aphrodite, cut another slice of human flesh for me! Or shall we do it together, like a muggle wedding cake? Wipe the blood on each other's lips with reverence and devotion? You'll never grow too old for me, my Severus. Severus Severus Severus Severus Severus**. My eyes don't see the Hall anymore, or all the pretty children. My vision is filled with black eyes and black hair bent over a bloated corpse, cutting off the fingers with pruning shears. With each sickening snap of bone I'm a little closer to vomiting. Thin, pale lips sip from a glass of wine so dark I fear it might be blood. White, spindly legs open to reveal a wonderful surprise. His face contorted in ecstasy in dim light. Strong digits slip a snake ring on a boney finger. The flood of memories stops abruptly, fizzling out like a burning picture. **BLASPHOMER! **It's so loud it makes my teeth rattle. I fear I may have said it out aloud. But no one is staring at me. All is normal on the outside. We are safe for now. **How dare he speak his name! Unworthy blasphemer! Punish him punish him punish him! Rip out his tongue bite it out if you must! He dare speak his name! **It takes everything in my power to keep from attacking the Headmaster, from doing as he commands. I know by now to never speak his given name, to never think it either. I made that mistake once. He made me burn my hands over a candle, one small section at a time, the tiny flame slowly eating into my flesh until all the skin was blistered and oozing. I haven't made that mistake again. The punishment for thinking about his son, however, is slightly more sever. I'm missing two toes and four teeth. Mutilation like that was a constant reminder to never think about him in an… inappropriate manner. It _was_ very hard at first, because he is such a lovely child. I remember the first time we saw him.

It was at the welcome feast but he was already in his second year, so dashing in his green and silver tie. **Of course he's in ****Slytherin** **my boy my little snake my Tommy. There was never any doubt about it with his blood so red and true inside his little veins. He looks like me at that age such a good boy so proud of him. Oh how he would laugh when they were punished! **I could feel inside of me how he wanted to go and embrace his son, that charming little devil. His glossy hair was like polished hematite, almost luminous in the soft flicker of the candles. **I was so worried he'd turn out _wrong_ because of the _company_ he is forced to keep. Look at him smile same as his mother. **Our attention was drawn to a freashly sorted Gryffindor who had tripped, knocking his head against the corner of one of the tables. We looked back at Tommy, his sweet little lips curled in what looked more like a smirk, showing just a hint of gleaming teeth. I'd yet to see the professor smile in person, but I'd seen memories of that smirk before. I had to admit, it was rather familiar on that cherubic little face. **Yes his mother's smile and spider eyes and spider hands does he have his spider venom too? I should hope so. Not enough to kill no not yet, just enough to wound and subdue. He'll have mine when he's grown though. Snake venom kills. My little snake, my little boy. I swore I'd never abandon you and here I am. Do you think he has his voice? His mother's siren voice? Oh speak again bright angle! **The professor's voice is indeed something to marvel over, I thought. It's commanding; it demands your attention with its sonorous rumble.

It was rather easy to draw the master's attention to another subject and I had inadvertently switched his thoughts to that of his… wife. I was never sure what to call him but I was never corrected for the term. **I want to touch him feel his skin he sits so far away it's been so long since I've had hands to feel. Do you remember how I'd run mine through your hair? So fine so smooth so filthy. I didn't mind. It kept the others away. Surely if they knew they would also want to touch. How many hands would I have to cut off? We could live in a palace made of them. You and me and Tommy.** His thoughts, _our _thoughts, were often hard to follow. I think it's because my brain not only has to direct information to two places, but also has to process two sets of thoughts as well as two sets of feelings and two sets of memories. It also explains my stutter. I have to work at making sure the words that come out of my mouth are my own. But that's okay. I can manage.

It was a week before we were able to be alone with Tommy. **Severus does not trust you. So cunning, so astute. He'd have our head if he saw you pawing at Tommy the very first day. He mustn't know, too close to the heretic. But I must speak to my son. **I was already missing a toe and a tooth by then. I'm allowed to say his name though. The master insists he's going to change it after all this hassle has been dealt with. I had settled into a routine by then. Wake up, bathe **can't wash the thoughts from your dirty mind pervert**, go to breakfast **the Potter boy is there can't wait to ring his neck finish the job his mud blood mother had to complicate_. _**Some days he would focus on his family, others he would expound on his hatred for Harry. Shame he had to die. He was a sweet boy, if a little introverted. Ron was much more open, all free smiles and exuberant laughter **staring at the filth again really you have no shame_. _**Then it was on to lessons.

It was by luck alone that Tommy was in the last class of the day. He sat in the back, radiating frigid disdain for everyone around him, his baby pink lips cast into a permanent frown. From what I could tell he was a complete loner, scowling harshly if addressed by his peers **he knows they are beneath him that is good**. It made me a little sad honestly. Children were social creatures; they should enjoy each other's company in their fleeting time of beautiful innocence. They also had a tendency to talk, so I needed a legitimate reason to have him alone. It was simple enough to charm a bookshelf to collapse just as class was about to end. With a spectacular crash, books tumbled over the slightly dirty flagstone.

"Oh d-dear. It seems w-we have a bit of a mess. T-T-Tommy, why don't you s-s-stay and help me clean it up?" He made the most abysmal face I'd ever seen on a child. For a moment I was sure he'd hex me. But soon his expression settled back to his frigid mask once again **he learned that from his mother always so distant**. "If you wish, Professor." His tone was calm and dispassionate **yes he'll have his voice as well**. He didn't make a move until all of the other children had cleared out. Once they were gone he abruptly stood, crossed his arms and marched straight up to me with a stride that so resembled Snape it rather caught me off guard.

"What do you _really_ want, Professor? The other students might be taken in by cheap tricks, but I am _not_." I was dumbstruck. Children tended to be shy when alone with authority figures that they weren't familiar with. Yet here he was, calling the bluff** marvelous marvelous he sees through lies he'll know the truth ask him ask him if he knows.**

"Tommy, do you k-k-know your f-father?" His expression immediately darkened from severely annoyed to absolutely murderous. It was the that it truly dawned on me that I was talking to the dark lord's son and not simply a moody child.

"I know it's not you, if that's what you're i-i-i-i-implying," he taunted. I was distinctly aware that he was gripping his wand in his left hand then. **Is he left handed must be how interesting **For a moment I was terrified of him. He looked as if he could kill me, consequences be damned. Suddenly, before I could control it, the master's words were flying out of my mouth.

"No no, you misunderstand, Tommy. His identity, do you know his identity?" There's a desperation seeping through the end of the sentence that I'm sure the boy picked up on. The master longed for his son to recognize him as his father, to know that Tommy was loved. It's a beautiful thing really, the love between child and parent.

"What's it to you?" He was eyeing us suspiciously. All of us knew we couldn't just come out and say it; you never knew who could be listening.

"You're n-named after him. His o-o-original name. D-do you know his o-other name?"

His eyes were narrowed in distrustful rage then, wand drawn and pointing right at me. "Do _you_ know his other name? If so, what are you going to do about it? I highly doubt my mother or the Headmaster would take kindly to you harassing a student, you know. You might find yourself… _t-t-t-terminated_ for such indecent conduct," he spat viciously.

"No! N-no, I'm a-a friend! To y-your father! You c-could say we're close." His wand lowered just a scant few inches and his defensive posture eased a bit. **Show him**. "I can prove it to you! I c-can! But it won't be pretty."

"Fine. Show me here, right now." I could feel his pride in Tommy's caution **good good yes he knows he knows who I am it was not hidden from you I knew you wouldn't hide it from him, Severus.**

I stood in front of the door, thinking he would perhaps bolt the second our secret was revealed. I faced the wall with my back turned to him **never turn your back to someone armed he doesn't trust you he might kill you **and removed my turban. I expected a scream, a gasp at least, perhaps a clatter as he dropped his wand. There was dead silence. My vision was shifted to the other face then, and I could see Tommy grinning openly and honestly. For a shining moment I could see that sweet purity he seemed to lack.

"That's enough, servant. It's easier for me to speak through your mouth." His voice was scales on sandpaper, the last gasp of a dying torture victim. It was true though. There was always an uncomfortable tugging sensation whenever his slit mouth moved. I fixed my turban and turned to face the boy. He was still grinning, happiness radiating from him like sunshine in summer.

"I knew you'd be back. I knew you wouldn't just leave us here to rot." His joy is beautiful and honest. His mouth was smiling so wide I could count his quartz glimmer teeth. Mid afternoon sunlight was pouring through the windows and his hair shimmered and his eyes glistened and this boy is an angel **you'll be losing another tooth tonight, pervert** but that's okay because so few have ever seen such a thing of beauty. He was striding towards us then, confident and smooth. I fell to my knees in reverence and worship and this angel embraced me. I knew it was his father that his arms wrapped around but I reveled in his warmth, his suppleness. I buried my face in his feather soft hair and inhaled. He smelled of ozone and fresh rain, with just the barest hint of formaldehyde **spending time with his mother. **Yes, this boy is worth any punishment. He pulled back slightly, so we could see his face. He trained his black eyes on mine and through his smile says, "Please, Father! Please let me help you kill them! They took you from me! It is my right!" If I have a soul left, at that moment it was weeping. His lovely face was contorted into rage again and I could feel my heart breaking. Such a beautiful boy should never have those thoughts. No child should. How could such perfection be tainted by thoughts of violence? And my master was laughing through my mouth, stroking his cheek and tucking black hair behind the delicate curve of his sweet little ear. It was torture to have to touch such wonderful flesh without feeling more.

"In good time, my son, in good time. You shall have all the blood you could ever want under my reign. But patience is a virtue," he replied with a chuckle.

Tommy clutched my shoulders, expression one of desperation. "I've waited ten years! Please, let me do it, _please_ let me kill Potter!" I'd never before seen such longing and loathing mixed together in one human, and I pray I never will again.

"No!" The answer was abrupt and left no room for argument. "I must be the one to do it!"

"I can kill him right now! No one will expect it! It will be so easy! Please, you have no idea how I've dreamed of killing him!" He pleaded frantically.

The master sighed through my mouth. It's exasperated but also affectionate. "I am glad you are so devoted. I was worried that the heretic would have warped you."

"His sentiment sickens me," he spits in disgust. Tommy needed no explanations as to who his father was referring to. They both see Albus as a threat and a menace to the proper way of life.

"As well it should. But it isn't that simple. It must be me that kills Potter. There is a prophesy. Besides, I have a use for the boy yet. He is needed for my full resurrection."

Tommy looked absolutely defeated at his father's words. "I hate him. I hate _all_ of them. I hate all of them so much it's practically the only thing I can think about." It was a confession that slipped through his lips. A deep secret that he had been forced to hide from everyone. I know how deeply such secrets can wound you, leave you bleeding and desperate for someone you could grab onto, someone to save you. He looked to his father for that outlet, for that salvation.

"Oh my poor little Tommy. They're not even worthy of your hate. You get that from your mother you know. So much hatred wrapped up inside one body. You will learn to harness it, to use it as your greatest weapon. Hate can accomplish amazing things." I wish he wouldn't tell things like that. I wish he would tell him to be sweet and pure forever, but I had my doubts that this child ever possessed any such attributes."_You_ will accomplish amazing things, my son."

"I want the world to tremble beneath my feet. I want them all to feel the hatred that I feel, I want them to feel nothing else. I want them to rip each other apart, but I want to be the one who made them do it." The look of lust on his face and the desperate longing in his voice was terrifying. Lust for death, longing for destruction. As I watched this angel through eyes that were once my own, it came to me that truly this was the greatest tragedy of our age. Tommy was so young, so beautiful, and yet he was so angry and twisted. Was there anything that could be done to save this poor boy, save him from this… this _fury_ that seems to eat him so?

The master used my unworthy hands to cup his perfect face. "I can give you those things, my son. But you must wait."

The pair settled on the tables then, forgoing the chairs in lieu of the tables themselves. They sat side by side, father and son. It was odd seeing the master engaging in such a casual, almost juvenile act. Together they looked out the windows, eyes and minds trained on the distant horizon.

"How long will it be before you kill Potter?" His tone was almost indifferent as he inquired after the death of another boy. It was as if he was asking after the time.

"It should be by the end of the school term. Though I suppose it depends on how intelligent he is." He draped our arm around the boy's shoulders then, the gesture loving and familiar.

"If his potions work is any indication of his intelligence then you'll probably have to wait longer than that. Mother is always complaining about him." Tommy moved closer, resting his head against us.

"How _is_ your dear mother anyway?" It was odd how easily they could switched back and forth from violence to endearment.

"He is fine, thought I suspect that he is lonely without you. When he doesn't know I'm watching, he wears his ring and looks at the pictures."

Our expression was wistful then. "Yes, I believe Regulus took most of them. I should have known he'd be useless with how sentimental he was. Unfortunate really, that the Black name should have to die."

"I can't say I know much about that. Mother tells me very little. I think he worries someone would hear or I might be too brazen with the knowledge." It was easy to tell that he's rather put out at his lack of awareness on the subject.

"You must understand, Tommy. He only wishes to keep you safe. With the heretic and his weapons so close he cannot risk any leak of information about your true lineage. Your mother had an abysmal childhood because of his own bloodline. Both of us did." Our hand idly rubbed Tommy's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It's the mark of a good mother to try and keep their child safe from anything that might harm them. He _was_ always squeamish about the oddest things though. I believe it's because he thinks they might scare you. He would always throw such a snit when I would bring you with me to dole out punishment." Our lips are turned up in a smile and for a brief moment I was treated to the sight of a baby with wispy black hair and a wide grin. There were screams in the background but the vision is only focused on his laughing son. "You loved it though. You were such a happy child. It pains me to see you so miserable."

Tommy buried his face into the fabric of our robe. "I don't have to be now though. You're here and soon we can punish them all together. I've always wanted to strangle someone. It seems so personal. They know exactly who is killing them. I can't wait until I can see that terror directed solely at me. What's it like, to kill someone? I know you and Mother both have killed." He peaked up at me, dark eyes half lidded in serene contentment and framed by heavy lashes **his mother's spider eyes**. If he had been any other child, it would have been a memory that I cherished forever. But despite his beauty, this youth is a monster. I've never seen a child that I wasn't attracted to in some way, but now Tommy is that exception. He takes no joy in simplicity like other children; there is no innocence, no wonder in his expressions. The only thing he cares about is violence, his only joy is death. Regardless of how ethereal his looks, how well spoken, how graceful he is, I can never again find this child of destruction appealing.

The master was silent for a long moment after his son's question. It's much easier for him to think when I've given him complete control of our shared body. It still takes awhile to answer, to draw from all the memories of the many he has killed and form a response. And even then he felt it hard to describe the pleasure it gave him. "It's wonderful. It's like everything wrong that's happened to you doesn't matter. Like you're the only thing in existence that's important and you have all the power in the world. Everything slows down and for a shining moment everything makes sense." He felt it was a vague description that only scratched the surface of the pleasure it gave him.

"I want to kill someone." Tommy stated.

"You will. Soon, I should think. That is, if everything goes according to plan."

"Perhaps you should kill someone now, help your focus." There was a sly, teasing grin on his face and in his tone. I felt my master's pride swell up again.

He laughed, strong and honest. "I could not be more pleased with you, Tommy. You're exactly as I had hoped you would be."

...

* grooming is the process in which a pedo insinuates themselves with a child. The way someone explained it to me is that in some cases it's almost like Pavlovian training to get the child to act the way you want and accept you before you... do bad things. In this case he's referring to the fact that Severus was pretty young for his tastes but was already trained to be bitter and vicious and all the things he likes. I also used groomed in sort of a literal sense so it's a double entendre. The "distilled you with their fists" is a reference to a KMFDM song called Spit Sperm. "Distilled within your discipline," was the line I tweaked. And Lolita just because it sort of fit the central theme of loving underage children that I was using. And because I'm sure Tom had plenty of time to read the works of Nabokov.

That's a good place to stop. Sorry about all the pedophilia. I want this to have icky feelings and an easy way to do that is to invite a pedo to the party. Also Ron doesn't get enough fandom love so my way of giving him some is to be part of a pedophile's wank bank. We'll come back to Quirrell again pretty soon but don't worry, he never gets to molest any babies.


	6. Corrosive Material

Happy Valentines Day! Bring your special someone the heart of their worst enemy to show how much you care! But roll it in pink glitter first. Because what's the point of Valentines Day if you don't cover everything in pink glitter? It looks so pretty!

**Corrosive Material**

The boy came highly recommended despite his rather dubious parentage. A disgraced mother and an abusive muggle father hardly make for a pedigree, but Tom knew that sometimes there was something to be had for half-bloods. As long as they had their wits about them, which this lad seemed to. When he was at initiation, he had seen his ambition, rooted around in his head to look at his past. He had smiled indulgently when he found the memory of the boy stabbing his father to death. It seemed they had rather a lot in common.

He wasn't much to look at, that was certainly true. With his baggy clothes, poor hygiene, and generally unpleasant visage, he could indeed turn heads, but not in a good way. But for some reason, he felt drawn to the poor thing. It was probably do to the similarity of their childhoods, decades apart as they were. But regardless of any such predilection, he needed to make sure the boy was competent in his duties. They didn't require many potions, but the ones that they did need tended to be complicated. As such, he was rather dubious of letting one so young and inexperienced be solely responsible for their creation. That was how he found himself sitting in on Severus' work. They'd given the boy the lab he'd needed, outfitted with tables, cupboards, caldrons of all sizes and materials, and an array of glistening surgical instruments. "Wands and spells were all well and good, but some things were best done by hand," the boy had said.

When Tom entered the room, Severus had looked up from his work with a startled expression, eyes wide and black like the pit of a freshly dug grave. Upon seeing who it was, the boy bowed his head in respect, a quick, "my Lord," falling from his nearly colorless lips. Tom merely gestured for him to continue and conjured a chair to observe from.

If there was an art to dissection, to the way flesh yields to the cold steel of a scalpel, then Severus was a master of the craft. Students young and old should flock to him in wonder to observe how he worked, cold and smooth but with barely hidden passion. He then knew with certainty that he mustn't worry about the boy's abilities. Any potion needed was in Severus' deft hands. Tom watched as he expertly slit open the calf of a dead man, watched as thick and stagnant blood oozed to the surface like eons old tar through the cracks of the Earth's surface. He watched as the flesh was stripped away by elegant hands. When there was nothing left but bone,a quick, wordless tap of the wand at the knee and ankle fully separated it from the sockets with a sickening crack. Another wand tap and a muttered "pulvero," had the whole thing, marrow and all, turned to a slightly blood damp dust. He watched as Severus bottled half of it, screwed the lid on the jar. The blank label now read tibia/fibula (human) whole, in spiky cursive, the letters drawn just a bit too tall, slanted to the right just a too much. The other half he added, bit by bit, to a gently boiling caldron. It must have been the final ingredient because after he thoroughly integrates it by way of stirring, he ladled it out into another jar. The contents were a clear, pastel pink. It was a surprisingly sweet color for containing human bones. It's reminiscent of valentines and bubble gum, of innocent feminine youth. Tom smiled to himself. It would not do to be taken in by the innocuous color of the potion. He was sure it was far more diabolical than its appearance let on.

"Tell me, what purpose does this creation serve?" he asked conversationally. Severus gave a start and quickly turned his neck so that he was facing his master. It appeared that he had forgotten that the other man was in the room with him. Tom found it amusing.

"Should even a few drops be ingested, the imbiber's face will melt off." He responded dispassionately. "Though I must admit, I did not anticipate the color." His tone was rather annoyed as he observed the freshly bottled concoction with critical eyes. Tom smiled more today than he had in a very long time. He found he'd even let Severus' impudence slide. For now.

"Surely the recipe made note of what color it should be?"

"It's something of my own creation." He found himself momentarily taken aback by his proclamation, though he hid it behind his normal mask of apathy.

"Impressive. If it works." There was an edge of disbelief to his voice, an unspoken dare for Severus' to prove his claim. It would indeed be impressive, if a bit ostentatious. But that had never stopped him before. It was fun to send a clear message. To let the opposition know to watch their backs because you were always out there. After all, what was the point of leaving the mark above the burned houses of their opponents if not to clearly demonstrate the fate of those who stood against them?

The boy gave a knowing smile at his challenge and opened one of the many cabinets that lined the room. He removed a cage inside which was a single white rabbit. He watched as Severus tucked it into the crook of his arm and squeezed its mouth open as it struggled against him. A few drops of liquid and almost instantly the thing let out an ungodly, almost porcine shriek as fur and blood and flesh dripped onto his hand then to the floor. Finally, in a misplaced show of mercy, he snapped its neck. Tom watched the young man in front of him, hands dripping offal and still holding the carcass with a decidedly smug look on his face. He couldn't help from smiling himself. Yes, this young man was not without his merits.

"Well done, Severus," he said, giving him a glib round of applause.

"Thank you," he replied, still looking as smug as can be. Tom playfully raised an eyebrow. Severus quickly added a, "my lord," to the end of his statement. Tom had a feeling that this young half blood would go far in his ranks.

Weeks later, he found himself dropping in on him, making requests for complicated potions he had no use for just to watch him work.


	7. Judas

Shout out to the show At Midnight (it won't let me use the at symbol which is what the show uses) which made fun of Harry Potter mpreg. Specifically Snape mpreg. Look up (at symbol) Midnight Sad Etsy Boyfriends and I'm sure you'll find it. It got me on track again because the Olympics got me on a Hetalia jag (which is another fandom I'm only familiar with through friends). Reading gay porn about bottom!Russia is how I protest the anti-homosexuality laws in Russia. So everyone join me in protest later tonight in reading all the gay porn about Russia there is! Suck it Putin! And for fuck sakes keep you shirt on!

**Judas**

When he comes to me, he looks the same. Like someone has taken a human and stretched and stretched until it's a warped and twisted parody. He paces back and forth, twitching, muttering, shouting. He's more nervous than I've ever seen him and Severus was always a boy to walk on pins and needles. I'd ask if this could wait until morning, but he's not alone. He's brought with him a child that he now clutches to him so tightly I fear he may break the poor thing's bones. I know that biologically speaking he is the child's mother. Gender was magically recorded next to a student's name in the roster. Normally it was either an M or and F. While there was an M next to his name, there was also a special annotation that briefly explained his anatomy. If he wished to be considered male it was hardly an issue; far be it from me to dictate his gender identity. Severus' pressured speech calms down and he halts like a startled animal, looking at me with sunken eyes rimmed with insomnia. I doubt it's the child that keeps him up at night. I know whose side he's joined, whose mark he carries. I just don't know how much blood is on his hands.

The baby makes a soft fussing sound and I watch as, with more gentleness than I would have thought him capable of, he wraps the baby's hand inside his own; holds it like the fragile treasure that it is. I know Severus isn't one to mince words, and it is awfully late.

"What brings you back here, my boy?" He has never been my boy, and he never really will be. Though I have a feeling as to why he's here.

"You need to protect him." There isn't a second's hesitation.

"Who?" I play the fool; as if it wasn't obvious.

"Don't feign ignorance. It doesn't suit you." There's his famous sneer. I find I'm oddly glad to see it. Then the baby makes a sharp sound, and before he can think better of it, he coos softly to him, "hush, Tommy." I know at that moment he had never meant to tell me whose child it was, and part of me wished I didn't know. But what's done is done. Really, Riddle should have known better, but it makes sense. Severus is a shade of Tom, and Tom always was a narcissist. To think that such fractured people managed to bring a life into this world, so untouched by their wrongs. He clutches the baby to him now, even tighter than before. He's well aware of the slip. Now he fears that I'll hurt his child, knowing who the father is. I would never harm a child, but part of me is afraid of this one. They say an apple never falls far from the tree and, in all my years of watching children grow, I've found that in most cases that is true. This child is from two remorseless killers, two brilliant men, two masters of dark arts. There is nothing more dangerous than a sharp intellect and the lust for power. I have to remind myself that the child is without sin. Despite his parents, none have suffered at his hands.

Severus is still looking at me with naked terror. He can see that I am reluctant to help. Perhaps it would be easier if Tom didn't know there was a child. Lord knows what sort of rituals one could perform with the blood of one's own offspring. If he knows, he might stop at nothing to have him. "Is he aware of the boy?" I ask. Severus looks relieved simply that I have spoken.

"_Know_?" His expression goes from relief to smug and there is that defiant edge to his voice that he has so far been lacking. He's never had any respect for authority other than his own and I wonder if Tom likes that about him. "He _married _me." I am openly shocked. Tom had always been a solitary predator. He never showed interest in any type of romantic relationship, let alone begetting a child. "We married before he was even conceived. He _loves_ me." The words are dripping with spite. Not towards his husband, but towards me. As if he needs to prove that he can indeed be loved. I do not tell him that madmen cannot love, that there is probably an ulterior motive behind Tom's actions. In that moment I see how unkind a place the world has been to Severus Snape. Or is it Riddle now?

"Does he know you're here?" This is a situation unlike any I've ever been in before, and I am unsure of the proper course of action.

"He does. But he doesn't know exactly what I'm doing. It took me months, but I've convinced him that he needs a spy here and that I am the only one who can do it. He's not happy about it though. He doesn't like the idea of being separated from us." He shifts the baby in his arms. Slowly he is gaining some measure of confidence.

"What does he think you're doing?"

"I'm to tell you that I've been raped by an unknown Death Eater and it's caused me to lose my faith. I conceived a child that I couldn't bear to get rid of and now I need you to help us. Help me repent and do the right thing."

It would have worked if I had not known who the boy's father was. If hadn't known how far gone Severus must be to have married Tom Riddle. I dare not think about what he must have done to gain such favor in the ranks of the jaded, sadistic, and depraved. Now the idea of Severus here for penance sounds ridiculous. He is not here to repent. I doubt he feels any guilt for his transgressions. But, supposedly, he's willing to throw everything he has away. I find it hard to believe. "Why should I help you?"

That had not been what he expected to hear. His expression is one of affront, but then he laughs. There are many kinds of laughter, and this is one of derision. It's a harsh, bitter cough. A parody of mirth. It is tragedy that one so young has that much anger inside of him, that much hatred. "I should have known," he starts. "You never cared to help me before, so why should you help me now? What did you think was going to happen?" His speech is a near manic, growing in speed and volume as he spits his venom at me. "I had nowhere to go, I had no family! You'd made it abundantly clear that my life was worth fuck all to you! They were the only prospect that I had! I had no name to speak of, no money, no friends! I was worthless! But they said they could make something of me! That I could right all of the injustices done to me!" They promised him power. What do lonely, abused little boys crave more than power? His volume stabilizes into a full yell, his accusations as cutting as a knife. "You might as well have handed me over to him personally! Tommy might as well be your son for the hand you've had in his creation!" He is correct. The wide eyed child clutching at his mother might as well be my own. I've failed another student, and he's not afraid to use it against me. He might not be here to fix his mistakes, but maybe I can fix one of my own. I should know better than anyone that there is such a thing as redemption. But I have to be sure.

"Why do you need me to protect your son?"

"Because he'll ruin him!" he screams back at me. Then his volume drops, as does his mood. "I… Some of the things he does, let's them do, I see now how senseless and cruel it is. He might have believed in a cause once, but now his only wish is power. I cannot let that happen to my son." I nod understandingly. Perhaps he does have regret; perhaps there is redemption for this poor young man after all.

"A mother's love has been known to move mountains."

"I'm not trying to move mountains; I'm just trying to save my son."

"Saving someone from Tom Riddle might as well be the same thing." He gives a rueful smile. "You love him." I am not referring to the child; it is clear that he is loved. I'm referring to the child's father, the man's husband. To the murderer, the monster, and the false prophet Tom Riddle. He still loves the man he is fleeing from. This is not easy for him to do.

"I love Tommy more."

In response to his name, the child looks right at me. "Crusho." Despite the mispronunciation, it is obvious what he is trying to say.

"Do you see what he's teaching him!? That was his first word! He said it before Mum or Dad! Tom was _proud_!" Severus looks as if he's about to sob as he holds the child in front of him. "No Tommy! You mustn't say that! You mustn't ever say that! That is a very bad word!"

I stand from my seat behind the desk and put my hand on Severus' shoulder. "He'll forget that word. In time."

...

Haha, more notes. Writing the notes is the best part of writing fanfiction. First order of business: grow up fandom. I've spent a lot of time with HP nerds and reading fiction in this fandom (it's _serious _research) and you people need to get the fuck over the whole Dumbles bashing thing. Yes, he was intending to sacrifice Harry. But to save your asses. Riddle isn't a good guy and if he won all of you would be in concentration camps. So I think if it was either Harry dies or you die, you'd claim he was a puppy rapist and shoot him so many times there'd be nothing left of his body. But Dumbles does show some bias and I use him as an unreliable narrator. Don't worry sappy fangirls (Chrissy), Tom loves his family. He's just a hardcore sociopath in all other respects. Second order: at first I was thinking that when Tommy said the baby version of crucio Dumbles was going to feel an uncomfortable jolt. But then I figured that was too Mary Sue and cut it out. And that's all orders of business.


End file.
